


The Way to a Man's Heart

by gremlinquisitor (suchanadorer)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol, Bad Cooking, Better Cooking, F/M, Flirting, Food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:54:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26215207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suchanadorer/pseuds/gremlinquisitor
Summary: Blackwall -It would be my honor if you would join me in Skyhold’s kitchens this evening.Come hungry.Yours,Nova Cadash, Inquisitor (still feels weird, that bit)
Relationships: Blackwall/Female Cadash (Dragon Age)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 16
Collections: Black Emporium 2020





	The Way to a Man's Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cartadwarfwithaheartofgold (manka)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/manka/gifts).



Rain lashes at the sides of the barn as Blackwall tugs at the straps of his boots. Skyhold is secure, distant from almost everything except the elements. The storm has been battering the fortress all day, sending soldiers and staff running from cover to cover to try to avoid the downpour. Dennet’s been fighting the better part of the day to calm some of the Inquisitor’s wilder steeds; his Denerim warhorses slept through the thunder, but the harts and other, stranger creatures are agitated by the weather, stamping and whining.

Blackwall sympathizes. His unease is not with the lightning outside, but nonetheless he’s paced the floor and staircase of the barn for most of the day, unable to settle his mind. Not even working with his hands helped; he gave up on the griffon after nearly taking his thumb off with the chisel in a missed swing of his hammer, too distracted by the thought of the missive delivered to him just after dawn.

_ Blackwall -  _

_ It would be my honor if you would join me in Skyhold’s kitchens this evening.  _

_ Come hungry. _

_ Yours, _

_ Nova Cadash, Inquisitor (still feels weird, that bit) _

The paper, pock-marked with raindrops when it arrived, has long since dried out on the corner of his table nearest the fire. She is not a woman of many words, but the meaning in this is plain enough, if less direct than he’s accustomed to from her. They’ve shared many meals since she came to find him in the forest and he followed her back to Skyhold, but most of them have been around a campfire, surrounded by her other friends, and the staff that watches over every post they set up in the wilderness. It hasn’t escaped him that Nova prefers to sit beside him, another habit of hers that frustrates and baffles him. She is a good woman, growing into a good leader, and yet of all those she could spend her time with, she continues to choose him, despite his protests. 

Months of shared bowls of boar stew are not the same as a summons to the kitchens, however. Nova prefers to take her meals there or in her chambers, eating in the great hall only on those occasions when it is important that she share her attention with some honored guest, smiling and nodding while Josephine or Cullen do the work of wooing some noble out of coin or soldiers for the cause. More than once she’s retreated to the stables afterwards, glassy-eyed from wine and too anxious to sleep, certain that the Inquisition would be better off if she just slipped back into the shadows and left the professionals to their tasks without her. He reassures her until she falls asleep, and he means every word.

He pauses before a window, his reflection translucent but readable on the glass, reflected against the darkness outside. There is nothing special to see, only an old man with shoulders weighed down by a past he is too craven to share with the woman he cares for. He plucks an errant piece of hay from his gambeson and runs a hand over his face before making his way to the stairs and out into the night.

Rain assaults him as soon as he opens the high, wide doors, leaving him squinting and swearing. The windows of Skyhold and the Herald’s Rest glow warm and inviting, mirrored on the ground where the courtyard is all but submerged, pools marking every slight unevenness in the grass. The merchants’ stalls are all closed tight against the wind and there’s not a soul in sight. He looks first towards the main staircase, having had a romantic thought of walking through the hall to meet Nova, but his eyes are drawn away to the right, past the curve of Solas’ chambers to the servants’ entrance to the kitchen, a set of stairs that wrap along the wall, allowing for easy deliveries that don’t have to pass through the grand main hall.

Thick smoke, dark even in the night around him, rolls out of the tiny window set into the wooden door. Blackwall sets off at a run, biting out a curse as his boot plunges into a puddle, spraying him with water as he rushes to the stairs. So much smoke isn’t normal, no matter what the cooks are up to, and Nova told him to meet her there, not in the dining area.

Every sort of dark thought runs through his mind in the few strides it takes for him to bound up the stairs. Will he find Skyhold in flames? Has something happened to Nova, or to the others in the kitchen? Has the fire spread? Should he warn someone?

“Inquisitor!” Blackwall pulls the door open, met by a cloud of smoke that leaves him coughing as he shouts.

“Stupid, Stone-sucking son of a nug farmer!” 

The voice is familiar, as is the vocabulary. The smoke thins, wafted away quickly by the wind outside, and Blackwall straightens at the sound of metal clattering onto wood. 

Nova Cadash, Lady Inquisitor and Herald of Andraste, stands on a stepstool pulled up to the biggest island in the kitchen. Her face is red from heat or frustration or both, her short-cropped black hair hidden by a kerchief. The apron she is wearing is comically long, hanging down past her feet between her and the island. In front of her, still smoking slightly, is a charred black form. From this distance, Blackwall can’t be sure what it was meant to be, only that it’s been burned beyond recognition or edibility. 

“Are you all right?” He coughs again, noting with embarrassment how her dark eyes narrow. He glances behind him, watching the end of the smoke trail out before shutting the door behind him. “What happened here, then? I saw smoke.”

She rolls her eyes and he kicks himself, unable to pluck the words back out of the air. Of course he saw smoke. Half the Frostbacks probably saw smoke. 

“Don’t, just don’t-- Don’t ask.” She flicks her wrists, sending a pair of heavy mitts flying to land on the island. “I mean, do you have to ask? Look at it.”

He does what he can to scuff his boots on the coarse mat by the door, then steps further into the kitchen. The sight of her is far more interesting than whatever it is she’s just pulled from the oven. Tiny wisps of hair have escaped from the front of her kerchief to curl around her face in the heat, and he has to bite back a laugh as she huffs and glares at the charred brick on the countertop, hands balled into fists on her round hips.  _ Better it than me.  _

The kitchen is not a second home to him, but being as close to the Inquisitor as he is, he is a familiar enough face that he’s allowed in when he pleases, and it takes him only a moment to move past the island to where the mugs are kept, and a moment more to fill two with fresh ale. He turns back to Nova and stretches across to set on one down in front of her. 

“Cooking’s thirsty work,” he offers, nodding to the frothing mug before finally turning real attention to the ruins on the counter. Whatever animal it was deserved a better end than this; he can see strings tied around it, and the blackened remains of sprigs of herbs in the bottom of the pan. 

Her glare moves from the roast to the ale. “Well, if I ever manage to do anything that actually looks like cooking, then I’ll be sure to have a drink afterwards,” she snaps, then sighs. “For now I’ll just drown my shame.”

He’s relieved to see her pick up the mug, and when she finally meets his eyes, her gaze is softer than the condemnation she’d given the ruined meal. He knits his brows and tilts his head at her, asking without speaking. There is no need for her to be embarrassed in front of him, ever, no matter what, but such things are hard to put into words, and would be harder still for her to hear right now. They are much alike in that. 

She lifts the mug to her lips and drinks deep. “I wanted to cook dinner for you.” It’s mumbled, most of the words trapped inside the tin of the mug, but Blackwall picks up enough to get the meaning. His heart pushes at his ribs at the sentiment, at the soft way that she says it, meeting his eyes only to look away. He drinks from his own mug to hide his smile, uncertain it would be taken as intended if she were to see it.

“Think it’s funny, do you?” There’s heat in her voice, but when she lowers her mug, she smiles at him and shakes her head. “I guess you would. All you have to do is look at a boar and it turns into something delicious. You make it look easy.”

Her words tumble out of her mouth as she looks down at the roast again, this time with a more contemplative gaze, as if she can understand where she went wrong just by staring at it. He’s grateful for her averted attention, giving him a moment to recover from her praise without having her see. 

Cooking isn’t something he ever really thought about; he just likes when things taste good, and over the years he learned what he needed to do to make the most of what he could find in the wild, first with his men and then later on, when he found himself on his own. It never struck him as a talent, more as a necessity. If the food was bad, soldiers wouldn’t eat it, and hungry soldiers couldn’t think or fight well. Military cooks made food that wouldn’t kill you if you ate it, but there was no pleasure in sitting down to a meal of meat and vegetables all boiled to the same shade of grey. 

When it was just him, food was one of the few things that could really bring joy, tastes connected to unspoiled memories, the simple pleasure of a full stomach in front of a fire, the cabin smelling of herbs and wine and sweet smoke. For him, cooking worth admiring meant small, colorful things in delicate boxes sold in Orlesian shops that themselves looked fragile, as if he’d break the door if he closed it too hard. His station had sometimes brought him to formal dinners, awful affairs with tiny cuts of meat and rich, salty sauces that seemed to do little for the meal but encourage him to drink more wine. Nobles spoke well of the food, and the chefs themselves always seemed very proud, but Blackwall could never quite figure out why, so he just assumed he had a taste for simpler fare, certainly nothing to be complimented by the Inquisitor herself. 

“I’m flattered by your praise, my lady. I wish I’d known you thought so sooner; I would’ve gladly made something for you.”  _ For us  _ balances on the tip of his tongue before he swallows it. It’s too familiar, too intimate to assume that they should be having private dinners together, even if he did accept her invitation here tonight.

Nova’s eyes go wide, and she laughs, shaking her head again. “No, don’t you get it? I don’t want you to cook, I wanted to cook for you! I’ve watched you cut up rabbits and deer at camp, you put them over the fire and then I guess magic happens, because I thought I was doing the same thing and all I got was a new log for the fire.” She lifts one end of the cooled pan and drops it with a clang. A charred-though corner crumbles and falls off and for a moment she stares at it, the same sort of look he’s seen her give prisoners awaiting their sentences when they dare to speak in front of her throne. Silence stretches as he waits for her to react, watching as she smiles, then grins, breaking down into helpless giggles until tears start to roll down her cheeks.

“I’m so sorry, Blackwall. I told you to come hungry, and now you’re gonna leave hungry, too. By the Stone, I don’t know what I was thinking, that I could just walk in here and impress you. I should stick to stabbing things that are alive,” she hiccups before dissolving into laughter again. It takes her two tries to pick up one of the knives on the counter. She buries it in the meat with an unexpected crunch and another chunk falls off, setting them both to laughing. 

It’s good to hear her laugh. The last few weeks have been difficult, with tempers flaring among tenuous allies. Their work in the Fallow Mire yielded results, as well as Grey Warden artifacts he’d stumbled over accepting. The Blades of Hessarian and the Qunari are difficult to trust, and he knows these decisions have weighed on her. She is too proud to say no to any responsibility placed in front of her, and he admires her for her efforts, but there are times when he wishes he could intervene, do something to make her days easier before he will inevitably make them harder. Perhaps, here tonight, there is such a possibility.

“I don’t dare try to tell you what you did to this poor beast, Inquisitor--”

“Please call me Nova, Blackwall. I really don’t want to be the Inquisitor right now.”

He gives her a nod that borders on a bow before he catches himself. “As you will, Nova. Now, I don’t know what happened here, but perhaps, if you’d like, we could try again together, see if there’s not some food to be had this night after all.”

“I told you I didn’t want you to cook,” she replies with a sigh.

He shrugs. “Then I won’t cook. I’ll supervise,” he suggests, gesturing broadly with his mug. “I’ll tell you what to do and how, and drink some more ale while I watch you work.”

Nova smiles as she shakes her head. “I bet you’d like that, getting to order me around for once.” 

“Not at all,” he replies, scratching at the back of his neck where it goes warm at the thought of being the one to give orders. “I find I work best these days standing behind a good leader, and even the best leaders sometimes need advice.”

She takes a step down from the stool only to pause, frowning at the apron before untying and retying it with a practiced sort of grace, looping the ties around so that they shorten the front to hang just above her boots. Blackwall sighs to himself. She handles it so well, but she shouldn’t have to. She is not the only dwarf here, and even if she was, she is also the Inquisitor. That should matter more. Skyhold was little more than a ruin when they arrived, a clean slate to be fitted according to any possible specifications, and yet Blackwall knows that there are similar step stools in the library, the war room, and Nova’s own quarters.

“Stay there,” he says, holding out a hand and setting his mug on the countertop. “I’ll bring everything you need to you, including more ale if you’d like.”

Nova is already shaking her head as she steps the rest of the way off the stool. “I can’t learn my way around a kitchen if I’m not… around the kitchen. I figure things must be where they are in here for a reason, so that’s one more thing to learn, too.”

Blackwall can only nod as he turns away, afraid that she would see the fondness that fills him as she is so effortlessly wise and practical. She did not ask for what happened to her at the Conclave, and some would see the anchor as an excuse to behave like a spoiled noble, to think that they deserved everything they received, but Nova has never been that way, and continues to surprise him with her willingness to learn. It is a good trait for a leader. 

“Well, then,” he replies, “let’s get started.”

She moves to stand beside him, watching him with wide, curious eyes as he attempts to get his bearings. He is more at home with a campfire than Skyhold’s roomy kitchen, but she listens as he explains, following as he pulls a new piece of meat from the small chamber some clever mage has enchanted to keep it cool. It’s a beautiful leg of lamb, and he’s already excited about the prospect of turning it into something delicious. Nova carries it like it’s precious, setting it on the countertop and returning to him, leaning into his touch when he sets his hand between her shoulder blades to guide her to the windowsill where fresh herbs grow in little clay pots. 

“Mostly I just choose them based on smell, but after I while I started to learn which ones seem to work better with which sorts of animal, though I can’t tell you why,” he adds with a bashful chuckle. He plucks a few sprigs from one of the plants, tearing them in half and holding them out for her to smell. She wraps both of her hands around his own and closes her eyes, breathing in as if he were offering delicate roses and not seasoning. 

“I used this one!” She exclaims, eyes bright and pleased when she looks up at him, her hands still resting on his. “I mean, it’s ashes in the bottom of the pan now, but I thought I recognized it, and I was right!” There’s a proud edge to her smile that warms him. Blackwall is sure that Nova can do anything she sets her mind to, and he’s glad to see that she might believe the same about herself. Roasting lamb isn’t the same as leading an army, but every little victory helps. 

They collect more herbs, piling them onto the countertop along with the meat. At his instruction, Nova retrieves a bottle of red wine while Blackwall collects onions and potatoes, setting them aside for her to chop. 

He rubs the leg with coarse salt and pepper, leaning into it with his shoulder. A bottle settles on the counter, then a face appears at the corner of his eye, accompanied by the scrape of wood over stone as Nova adjusts the step stool before hopping up to join him. Blackwall turns to look at her, pushing the pan in her direction. “Salt and pepper will bring out the flavor, but it helps if you work them into the meat first, like this.” He shows her, then moves away, motioning for her to set her hands on it instead. She sprinkles salt over it and starts, doing her best to emulate what he did, but it’s too gentle, the salt falling off into the pan instead of pressing into the meat. 

“Here, let me show you.” Heat flares on his face as he steps in behind her, covering her hands with his own and pushing, as hard as he dares, showing her how to work the seasonings in. Her hair smells like smoke and there’s ale on her breath when she turns to look up at him, a soft smile on her face.

“Focus now, my lady. You don’t want another one of those, do you?” He asks, nodding towards the blackened ruin still lying on the counter.

“No, but you’re here to help now, so I’m sure it will be fine.” 

She follows up the reassurance with a quick kiss at the corner of his mouth. Blackwall straightens away from her, sure that she felt his heart beating hard against her back.

After preparing the meat, Blackwall sets Nova to work with the potatoes and vegetables. She’s quick with knives, and it’s a pleasure to watch as she chops everything he puts in front of her, working through until there’s a pile of diced vegetables beside her on the counter, with deep red potato skins, vibrant carrots, and soft white onions.

“Here then, into the pan around the meat.” The lamb is already resting in the pan, coated with salt and herbs. “You’ll want plenty of oil on all of it, and then enough wine.”

Nova chuckles. “You’re very exact with your measurements, Blackwall,” she replies dryly. “How much is enough?”

His cheeks are warm from the fire and her amusement. “I usually have a mug, or two, and then use whatever’s left in the bottle.”

He hears the telltale pop of a bottle opening as he sinks down and sets another log on the fire. A moment later a pan lowers down into his vision, already smelling of rosemary, peppar, and red wine. He watches as Nova starts to set the pan down into the flames. 

“I think I see where it went wrong last time,” he says. “You see the hooks there? You want it a little above the flames.”

Nova draws a breath and breathes out a soft oh as she looks where he’s pointing. She hangs the pan above the fire, then steps back to look at her handiwork with a satisfied smile. 

“And now, we wait. The hardest part,” Blackwall sighs as he stands again.

“At least now we have wine while we wait, and I’m sure we can find bread if you want something in the meantime.” 

Blackwall steps to lean back against the counter and Nova moves to join him, hopping up onto the step stool again.

“Where did these come from?” He asks as he taps the stool with his boot. They’re the perfect size for Nova. He’d thought about making them when he’d seen the size of tables and chairs in Skyhold, but they appeared not long after. While it was disappointing not getting to build something useful for her, in a way he was relieved. Perhaps she would’ve seen it as demeaning to assume that she needed or wanted that sort of assistance.

His answer to that concern comes as soon as the thought crosses his mind.

“I asked for them,” she replies, her expression dark as she stares into the fire. “You’d think with me at the top of the food chain around here that they’d consider maybe possibly building one damn thing in my size, but no. I even have one to get up into my nice, big, expensive bed that was made for the Herald of Andraste, except that when people think of a Herald of Andraste, a Child of the Stone is apparently the last thing they picture.” Nova huffs a humorless laugh and shakes her head. “Josie apologized for days after I pointed it out to her. I had to drag a chair from her office into the war room so I could even see the maps.”

She opens and closes her left hand while she talks, and Blackwall sees the sickly green flare and fade between her fingers. Sometimes it hurts her, though he sees how she tries to hide it, pulling her cloak down or wrapping her scarf across her face. He’s learned to read the tiny changes in her expression, and now he watches as she glares at the flames and at their dinner. Her brows twitch and her lips go pale from where she presses her mouth shut, replaying some old conversation or reliving some moment of shame.

They both find themselves in strange new situations, living lives they never imagined, after incidents that killed other people - good people - but left them alive, and with the opportunity to be better than they were.

“Sometimes I wonder what it must be like to see the Deep Roads, or Orzammar. A whole world where everything is built for people like me. Have you ever seen it?”

The question stops him cold in his contemplation, and again he curses himself for his weakness in not telling her when they went to the Storm Coast. She’d looked at him with such admiration, such affection that he couldn’t bring himself to hurt her, to lose the warmth in her eyes forever. So now the lies have to continue.

“Oh. I’ve not yet had the pleasure of seeing any real cities, mostly just ruins in the Deep Roads. Darkspawn tend to keep away from civilization down there. You know Grey Wardens, we go where the darkspawn are.” He purses his lips and nods as sagely as he can. She thinks he knows more about her people’s way of life than she does, all while he banks on her never having seen the places he can only imagine in his mind. She deserves better, in so many ways. Better than step stools, better than the Carta tracking her even after she survived, and better than him.

Nova turns away, then moves again, pressing his mug into his hand. She takes the nearly empty wine bottle from where she’d abandoned it on the counter, then hops up to sit on the edge, putting them shoulder to shoulder.

She pulls one leg up to set her knee on the wood and turns to face him. Her eyes are shining from the warmth of the fire and the strength of the ale when he looks at her. “Tell me about the Deep Roads. I’ve never been.”

Blackwall is grateful for the island to lean against as his stomach falls towards his feet and the sweat on his back goes cold. She has no idea what she’s asking of him, and for the real Blackwall it would likely be a simple explanation.

“It’s not something we usually talk about,” he starts, settling an arm around her shoulders and looking away. “You see terrible things down there, they’re not good memories.”

Nova mistakes his touch for an invitation and snuggles in against his side, sighing contentedly and refocusing her gaze on the fire. “I’m not asking you to tell me what the inside of a darkspawn looks like. Just about the Roads. Please, just a little.”

Blackwall drinks deep from his mug, then nods. Every word he says now could be his undoing if the Inquisition ever has reason to venture underground, but he is helpless to deny such a sweetly asked request of her and he knows she knows it. 

“The entrances to them aren’t so easy to find anymore. We have to follow our darkspawn senses most of the time, and even then a lot of them just look like abandoned mines. But get down far enough, and they turn… splendid. Still in a ruined sort of way, but you can tell that they were built by expert craftsmen, and that they weren’t built for men like me.”

She chuckles at that, wrapping an arm around his stomach, and he pulls her close, letting the warmth of the room and the feel of her next to him lull the anxiety that rises in him as he considers the day when all of this will fall apart around him.

“The tunnels are low, but wide, so that you could imagine four or more dwarves walking beside each other. Sometimes there were proud statues, and all of it was decorated, like every tunnel was leading you to somewhere grand. I remember admiring the way the stone sparkled when we’d make camp for the night, how carefully they’d chosen the pieces and how so much of it withstood the test of time. Shame that darkspawn ruin such things.”

“Yeah it is,” she mumbles, tapping her heel against the island.

He continues, weaving what little he did see with what the other Blackwall told him, and doing his best to imagine the rest as something that would make Nova happy, hopefully without making her sad for a life she’ll likely never see. She listens, asks a question or two, nodding along and weaving their fingers together where his hand rests on her shoulder. He’s never thought he had a way with words, but she takes in everything he tells her as if it’s a bard’s tale, and perhaps it is, embellished and filled with fanciful half-truths. The scent of rosemary and red wine fills the room around them while he tells her of collapsed roofs and darkspawn tunnels hacked into intricate mosaics, and long-cold sconces hanging at intersections now occupied by spiders and deep crawlers. His voice is warm where it reflects up off her hair, tickling when he leans down to bury his nose in her curls.

The meat and vegetables darken as they roast over the fire. Blackwall pauses in his imagining to lean down to scoop some of the sauce up over the lamb, only to have Nova snatch the ladle from his hand. 

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten who’s supposed to be doing this,” she quips, pouring spoons of deep red liquid over the meat.

“Then I suppose you know it’s done?” He replies with a smile.

Her face lights up, and she looks from him to the roast and back. “Really? I’ve been hungry so long that I stopped, and then started again when everything started to smell good!”

He has to step back quickly out of her way as Nova whirls into action, pulling on the heavy gloves to take the pan out of the fire. She looks up at the counter, then at a table in the corner under a window. “We can just take this there, right? There’s no one else in here.”

Blackwall finds plates and cutlery while she sets the pan on the table, standing on her toes to make sure it settles without spilling. He brings bread and butter as well, already sure that the sauce will be worth savoring. Nova is cutting thick slices of lamb when he slides a plate past her.

“Thank you for not just giving up on me and going to the Herald’s Rest.” She tips her chin down, and to anyone else it might look like she’s got all her attention on the knives in her hand, but he sees the way she bites down on her smile when she says it. “I wanted to do something where it was just the two of us.”

“I like spending time with you, my lady. It was my pleasure.”

“I told you not to call me--”

Blackwall cuts her off with a kiss, cupping her cheek with one hand and setting the other over her own where she’s rested it on the table, still holding a carving knife. Nova sighs and leans into the kiss, running her fingers through his beard and tilting her head. She tastes like red wine, and everything about her is warm and soft and strong, and for just a moment his mind is quiet, letting him have this, letting him be a man in love with a woman, about to enjoy a good meal together, nothing more. 

“What do you say we take this meal in my chambers?” She whispers against his mouth. He feels the mischief in her smile and can only smile back at her, helpless as always against her requests.

“I can do that, my-- Nova.” He stumbles over the words, but the slip is worth it to feel her grin and press in for another kiss.

“My Nova. I like that,” she muses, breaking the kiss but letting her hand linger on his face as she steps away.

Blackwall moves from her as slowly as he can, relishing her touch. He leans over the table and collects the pan while Nova runs to grab another bottle of wine, tucking it under her arm before gathering the plates and cutlery.

The grand hall is cool and quiet, the only sound the steady rush of the rain outside. Blackwall holds the door as Nova walks past him, hurrying through the dimly lit hall to her own door. She starts trying to juggle all that she’s carrying just as he comes up behind her, pushing open the door with one hand. There are stairs, and darkness beyond that will soon be lit with candles, and a room he is starting to know well. 

“Lead the way, my Nova.” 

**Author's Note:**

> This was a real pleasure to write and share for the exchange!
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! It really means a lot to me to see what people think of this story, and while I know I don't always keep up at replies, know that I read every comment and always want to respond. Sometimes I just need to find the words.
> 
> Please come say hello on my [tumblr](https://gremlinquisitor.tumblr.com/post/629303958190587904/the-way-to-a-mans-heart) if you're there! :)


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